


Hide and Seek

by kalipeda



Series: The Magic of Us. [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Chapter two is pure smut, Dom/Sub undertone, Hedge Witches, M/M, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, You're Welcome, and then screws his brains out, ayoo, eliot helps him find it, quentin finds a place to belong, the following tags just for that lol, true loovveee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalipeda/pseuds/kalipeda
Summary: “Goodness. Bambi wasn't lying, was she?” the man chuckled lightly. He was draped over a velvet settee, one leg bent at the knee, dark curls falling into his eyes. “You are just a little kitty cat of a thing.”“I — I’m not —“ Quentin shook his head, determined to get some answers out of this confusing mess. “Who are you? Where am I? And what does this symbol mean?”“Tsk, tsk, one thing at a time, Q,” the man lifted an eyebrow, before then lifting a cigarette to his lips. “You are in a hedge witch safehouse,” he snapped his fingers, and a flame popped up between finger and thumb. “That symbol was planted to pull in magic users,” he brought the flame to the cigarette and took a leisurely inhale as it ignited with a flash of sparks. “And I, Quentin Coldwater, am Eliot Waugh."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Queliotweek, day 2
> 
> A short exploration of how things would have been different if Quentin was found by hedgewitches, not brakebills -- and if the coven that found him was lead by one Mr. Eliot Waugh.  
> Nothing overly plotty, but soft boys, found families and belonging.
> 
> More notes at the end to discuss some of my choices regarding characterizations/relationships in this fic.
> 
> Shout out to the mods/organizers!

It all started with the damn books. Everything seems to start with them — his friendship with Julia; his arguments with Julia; a contributing cause of, and solution to, his withdrawal from any type of social life; magic.

Quentin isn’t stupid. He knows magic isn't _real_ real. He can do card tricks and make coins disappear, but there’s a secret behind everything, just ask Pen and Teller. 

Except. 

The book, the first-edition he found a week ago at the secondhand book shop, covered in handwritten notes and symbols. Curious, he bought it for five bucks and took it home, ignoring Julia’s exasperated sigh at the sight of another addition to all things Fillory. He read each note, examined each symbol, and began to wonder… because there was a pattern, to these notes; a system built into what he quickly realized were spells, too precise and logical to be the simple musings of an enthusiastic reader, but nothing he understood or recognized, and nothing any combination of google searches could reveal. Frustrated despite himself, despite knowing it was _nothing_ , just the imaginative creations of an enthusiast, Quentin put the book aside and resolved to let it go. And he _did_.

Except.

The symbol, stamped into the book’s inside cover in red-brown ink, also stamped in the window of a dimly lit bar. Quentin was exploring a different route home from his boring office job not long after having purchased the book. He froze when he saw the strange silhouette outlined on glass — a key hole centered in a star — suspicion bubbling sourly behind his ribs. _Was this a joke?_ he wondered. Was Julia that desperate to make him “grow up” that she set up some elaborate scheme?

Shoulders hunching, but determined, Quentin pushed his way through the cloudy glass door and into the dusky interior. It was much nicer than he had been expecting, all deep reds and blacks, wood and leather, and Quentin hesitated briefly before his suspicion curdled into something close to anger, because anger was easier to handle than hope. The hope that magic might actually be…

Quentin pushed his way to the bar through a small crowd of eclectically dressed people, and waited quietly for the bartender’s attention, shifting his bag against his hip and tucking his hair behind his ears restlessly. 

Finally she turned to him, smile like a shark, eyebrow cocked. “Well hello, there. Glass of milk, kitten?”

Quentin fought the blush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. “No, actually,” he stuttered out, fingers tapping against the clean surface of the bar before diving into his bag. “I wanted to ask about — that.” He thrust the book forward, finger jabbing at the symbol first on the page then on the window. “What. What is this?”

“Huh. Well, fuck me,” the bartender said flatly. “That shit work. Wait here, kid,” before striding off and through a padded back door. 

“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age,” Quentin mumbled sourly under his breath.

A few moments later, during which Quentin continued to shift awkwardly at the bar, ignoring the curious stares around him, the bartender reappeared at his elbow. “Come with me,” she rolled her eyes at Quentin’s startled jump. “You got a name, there, kitten?”

“Q,” Quentin mumbled, fingers twisting through the strap of his bag, hesitant to give it in full.

“Ooh, short, sweet, easy to shout while in the throws of ecstasy.” The bartender stopped at the back door, shark smile back in place, “Whoa there, Q, don’t be so embarrassed. You’re cute, but you’re gonna need a helluva lot more confidence if you’re looking to get any answers.”

“About this symbol?” Quentin indicated the book, held close to his chest with a forearm.

“And then some,” the bartender inclined her head. “Hey, here’s a freebee — the name’s Margo. And what you’re about to get into is gonna blow your _fucking_ mind, so you better be sure as shit that you’re ready to face it.”

“But - I don’t even know what _it_ is.”

Margo shrugged demurely, “That’s all part of the game, isn't it? It’s like hooking up at a party — maybe you’ll get a mind-blowing orgasm, maybe you'll just get herpes. It’s all a big mystery.”

“Herp — what?” but before Quentin could even frame his question, Margo was pushing him through the door and into a hall with a chortled ‘good luck!’ 

Plain concrete illuminated by neon blue strips along the edges of the ceiling, the hallway was stark and cold, and Quentin accommodatingly felt himself freezing up almost immediately. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” came the muffled comment before the door was clanging open behind him and Margo was dragging him down the hall. “Come on, kid, confidence, remember? Shit. I mean, you saw the brand, so you’re already like 20% of the way there.”

“The way where?” he managed to strangle out past his growing anxiety. What the hell was going on? What was he doing? Was this a drug deal? Was Quentin about to accidentally buy drugs?

“To where you’re going,” Margo said, actually sounding strangely genuine, before she was once again pushing him through a door, slamming it behind him.

“I don’t even know where I _am_!” Quentin called after her.

“Well that one’s easy to figure out,” a soft voice drawled from the room, and Quentin quickly spun around to find its speaker. 

“What, um, what is?” Quentin cleared his throat. 

“Goodness. Bambi wasn't lying, was she?” the man chuckled lightly. He was draped over a velvet settee, one leg bent at the knee, dark curls falling into his eyes. “You are just a little kitty cat of a thing.”

“I — I’m not —“ Quentin shook his head, determined to get some answers out of this confusing mess. “Who are you? Where am I? And what does this symbol mean?”

“Tsk, tsk, one thing at a time, Q,” the man lifted an eyebrow, before then lifting a cigarette to his lips. “You are in a hedge witch safehouse,” he snapped his fingers, and a flame popped up between finger and thumb. “That symbol was planted to pull in magic users,” he brought the flame to the cigarette and took a leisurely inhale as it ignited with a flash of sparks. “And I, Quentin Coldwater, am Eliot Waugh,” he let the smoke seep from his smile slowly, curling like ink in water. glowing acid green in the dim room. Quentin tracks the lazy movement, follows it back to its source of white teeth smiling from behind plush pink lips, and has the distinct feeling that he has somehow just made a terrible mistake. 

“Oh.”

x

So, magic is real.

And Quentin is freaking out. 

To say that he is feeling elated is an understatement, and one that is overshadowed by the very real and impending panic attack he also feels coming on. 

“I think I’m gonna —“ he waves vaguely over his shoulder towards the door, indicating…something…but then it’s too late, and suddenly he can’t breathe, and his brain is short circuiting, klaxon screaming that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, and Quentin thinks he might throw up, oh shit —

“Quentin, breathe with me.”

 _He can’t_ , in fact, Quentin is pretty sure _he’s dying_.

“Listen to how I breathe: in, 2, 3, and out, 2, 3.”

That’s what _this_ was supposed to _be_!  
_In_ — ask about the symbol — and _out!_ But then Quentin was buying drugs, except it was magic, and now he’s _dying_.

“You’re not dying, Quentin, everything is going to be okay.”

Nope, he’s quite certain he’s dying.

A warm chuckle, hot breath against his ear, “I wish I felt guiltier for finding aspects of this amusing. Oh, Q, you’re making me lose sensitivity points.”

“Why,” Quentin manages through a gasp, “do I feel like…you had very few…to begin with?”

“Ouch, kitten. Ouch.”

“ _This_ is ouch.”

Eliot hums a sound that expresses how much he doubts that statement. Quentin, insulted, feeling like a dish rag that’s mopped a muddy floor and been wrung out too many times during the process, raises his eyes to glare — and feels his eyes instead widen in shock. Eliot has maneuvered him to the settee, between his legs, where he rests back against the other man’s very solid, and very warm (how did he miss this?) chest. 

Quentin lurches up, nearly stumbling forward face first onto a very thick and expensive looking Persian rug. “Um, I-I’m so sorry, I —“

“Now, now, none of that,” Eliot cuts him off firmly, rising to stand. Quentin swallows thickly as he takes in their height difference; he barely reaches the other man’s chin. “We all react differently, and there’s no shame in it. The important thing is that you were able to come out of it relatively quickly. Here,” he reaches over to a small serving tray and pours amber liquid from a cut-crystal decanter into a matching glass. “This will help.”

Thankful, Quentin takes the proffered drink, coughing only a little at the peaty slide of whisky. He continues to sip, Eliot simply standing by and watching. Quentin waits a few moments until he can feel the alcohol in his elbows, buzzing faintly at his temples, before setting the glass back on the tray. 

“Feeling fortified?” Eliot’s smile is cheshire bright.

“No,” Quentin admits, but forges ahead, “But still tell me — everything. Please.”

Eliot’s smile blooms into something almost soft. 

x

It’s not that magic comes easily to Quentin. Because it doesn’t, not really. It’s just that it feels — right. The first flash takes him by surprise, not because of what it is, but because it _works_. Quentin is left feeling lightheaded with his success as Eliot grips his shoulder and jostles him in congratulations. 

“You’re a natural, Q!” he grins over the lip of the martini Margo has just handed him (as far as Quentin can tell, she’s less of a barkeep than she is a guard. Her weapon of choice? Probably her very pointy stiletto heels. It’s her maybe-boyfriend Josh who is the one that actually slings drinks and wipes spills).

Quentin smiles back shyly, “What’s next?”

x

Days and then weeks pass in this fashion: Quentin tells Julia he’s going to work, but instead he goes to the High King Pub where he studies spells under Eliot’s tutelage. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks one day, after he’s confused himself silly trying to make his fingers form the correct shapes.

“Doing what?” Eliot asks from where he’s laid out on the seat in one of the booths, long legs propped against the wall and head dangling into open space while he smokes one of the strange cigarettes he’s so fond of. 

“Teaching me. What do you get out of it?”

“You’re not the first I’ve taught, Q. And you won’t be the last.”

“Okay. But why?”

Eliot takes a thoughtful drag before answering. “Because magic isn’t intellectual property, despite the way bougie magicians pretend it is; and it isn’t a finite commodity that they have a monopoly on, the way they act like it is, doling it out only to those they find deserving. If you have the spark, you have the spark, and everyone who can access magic deserves to be able to. If hedges like me don’t stick up for those people the magicians have arbitrarily found underserving, then they’ll never discover what they are truly capable of. And that’s just really fucking unfair, Q.”

“O-kay,” Quentin wobbles his head from side to side in thought. “Sooo you’re the magic version of Robin Hood?”

Eliot, who has been morose all day, lets out a soft chuckle, “Men in tights, baby, that’s me.”

x

The first tattoo Quentin gets hurts like a bitch, but damn is he proud of that pointed star inked into the inside of his left elbow. The entire coven shows up that night to toast his first official success. High King Pub is full of laughter, music, and smoke that he is pretty sure is not cigarette. Quentin has learned everyone’s face by now, and quietly, but happily, watches them from his corner at the bar. 

Kady: tall, beautiful, and obviously been through some shit. Also very cranky.

Penny: also tall, also beautiful, likes to glare at Quentin and criticize his taste in music. Even crankier than Kady.

Margo, of course: not so tall, but beautiful, and absolutely terrifying. Quentin adores her.

Josh: diverging from the general aura of bad-assery surrounding the coven, down to earth, happy-go-lucky, one hell of a cook. 

And Alice: like Josh, different from the rest. But where Josh’s distinctions in personality seem to be the very thing that make him fit in, Alice is always on the fringes. Seems to prefer it. Quiet, contemplative, but from what Quentin has seen, and based on the sleeve of stars adorning her right arm, unbelievably talented. 

As far as Quentin can tell, Kady and Penny are an item, as are Margo and Josh. As he tears at the edges of his paper coaster, he finds himself musing. Does that mean he and Alice…?

“What are you doing over here all on your lonesome, meow-meow?” Eliot interrupts that chain of thought. “This party is for _you_ , and you're not even enjoying it.”

“I’m not really. The party guy,” Quentin shrugs after a sad show of spirit fingers. Eliot exaggerates a pout.

“Too much noise?”

“Too much…everything.”

Eliot’s goofy expression sobers, and he leans sideways against the bar, close enough that the fronts of his thighs brush Quentin’s hip. “Does it make you nervous?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin admits, staring into the bottom of his glass. He’s never really thought about it.

“Does it make you self-conscious?”

Quentin glances up through his overly long fringe, licks his lip, “Maybe a little. It’s just — a lot.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, I’ll only say this once, and then I won’t press the issue again; if you feel more comfortable on the sidelines, that’s perfectly alright. But Quentin,” Eliot reaches out and gently tucks those locks behind Q’s ear, “when you’re with us? You don’t have to hide. We all have our secrets. We all have our baggage. But when we come together as a coven, it’s not about pretending to be normal, or okay, or worrying about being judged. This is a safe space where we can be ourselves, and express ourselves, freely, without concealment or hiding.” He then untucks the hair, letting it fall softly over Quentin’s eyes again. “Or not. Like I said, it’s your choice. But Q?”

“Uhm. Y-yes?” Quentin is clutching the edge of the bar with knuckles that feel like jello.

Eliot leans close enough that Quentin can smell the sweet smoke still clinging to his deep purple button down. Can feel his breath, warm, on his cheek. Once again he curls one finger delicately behind Quentin’s ear, gathering his hair back. “Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but still. I hope that one day, you _want_ to be found.”

x

“How are you so good at this?” Quentin asks Eliot one afternoon over the lid of his laptop. They’re on internet duty, scouring the web for anything magic related that might be legit.

“Uh, google?”

“No,” Quentin smiles. He’s been doing a lot more of that lately. Smiling. “Teaching.”

Eliot sits back in his seat and lowers the lid of his own laptop halfway. “That’s flattering of you to say.”

“Well it’s true,” Quentin asserts at Eliot’s quiet tone. 

“Again, flattered. But,” Eliot tap, tap, taps his finger against the table, “it’s less a natural talent, and more a necessary adaptation.”

“What do you mean?”

Eliot continues to tap. “Magic can be…”

“It’s amazing,” Quentin enthuses, can’t help himself, and the tapping stops.

“Often. Sometimes. The rest of the time it can be deadly. Let’s just say that I learned from my mistakes.”

Quentin curses under his breath, “Shit. I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressed, I —“

“Don’t apologize,” Eliot cuts him off. “You didn’t do anything wrong. If I wanted to avoid the subject I wouldn't have answered. And nows as good a time as any; I should have warned you, before.”

“About..not apologizing?”

Eliot muffles a tired laugh into his hand and turns the gesture into a dry wash of his face. “No, Kitten — though take that lesson to heart, too,” he waves a hand. “That magic can be dangerous.”

“Oh. Well, I knew _that_ —“

“That if you over exert your innate reservoir you turn into a soulless thing, all magic, zero _you_?”

Quentin is still openmouthed, cut off mid-word, finger raised. He snaps his mouth shut and tugs at his collar. “Yes, well, no. Not that bit. Isn’t that kind of…”

“Important?”

“To start with.”

“Very much so.”

“So why only tell me this now? It’s been almost two months since I’ve been here.” Quentin isn’t upset. Shocked, maybe, but it makes sense that something as powerful as magic could have as equally powerful repercussions. He just doesn’t get why Eliot would go out of his way to omit information like that. 

Eliot smiles, but it’s a little sad. “Did anyone ever explain to you the fetching spell that brought you here?”

“What -?” Quentin is confused by the sudden change in topic, but trusts that Eliot is going somewhere with this. “No?”

“Operates like a magical magnet. We picked a bookstore on a busy street, lots of traffic, set the spell in the book, and sat back to wait. But the thing is, we knew we couldn’t make it too obvious, otherwise any magician walking past might notice it and track it back to us. It helped that we picked such a seedy spot — no ‘proper’ magician would willingly go into a shop like that. 

Magically speaking, though, most magicians learn to guard their minds, so our spell had to be subtle, something that only a very openminded person could get pulled in by. Not openminded in terms of like politics, mind you. But instead open to growth, to seeing and realizing potential; imagination, really. Possibility…

You must have walked by that store dozens of times before you finally answered the pull. I bet you felt it that very first time, but managed to rationalize it away. Something logical and respectable, and fucking boring as hell because it was what society taught you to think, not what you actually believed.”

Quentin is nodding because — Eliot is right. The bookstore was small and drab, its dirty windows pasted with old, yellowing newspaper. Its open door sitting crooked in its frame, revealing an interior that looked less like a bookstore and more like an episode of Hoarders. Dressed in his slacks and starched, white oxford as he went to and from work, Quentin had begun crossing the street a block up from the shop to avoid the urge to go inside, afraid that a coworker might see him and judge him for patronizing such a suspicious operation.

“We had that book planted for two weeks before you finally gave in to it, Q. Two weeks of fighting what your gut was telling you, because you were afraid it went against what was expected of you. Of course once you finally _did_ go for it, it linked to the good ol’ High King, and brought you here. But still. Two weeks.”

“So?” Quentin can’t help but ask. 

“ _So_ , my adorable friend, once I realized it took you that long to follow your instincts, and why, I didn’t want to scare you away by pointing out that this new discovery that promptly sent you into a panic attack could also kill you.”

“Oh,” Quentin falls back in his seat a little bit. “That’s it?”

Eliot laughs, now, somewhat amazed. “Yes, Q. That’s it. I couldn’t risk you missing out on what you are supposed to be, just because some asshole gave you a complex by telling you that magic is fake and to march in a straight line; it would have been too easy to use that as a crutch to make excuses and hightail it out of hear if you got spooked.”

Quentin thinks of Julia, now, and her constant admonishments to grow up, to stop dreaming of Fillory, to stop the magic tricks and face the real world. How it was her voice that told him to cross the street during those two weeks when he avoided entering the bookshop despite the gnawing urge to do just that.

“That…makes more sense, now.”

“I’m so glad,” Eliot sniffs with an eye-roll, the hint of a smile belying the action, and returns to typing.

After a pause, Quentin, too, resumes his internet searching. “Hey, Eliot?” he mumbles, face ducked close to the screen.

“Hey, Q?”

“Thanks.” For what, specifically, Quentin isn't sure. He just knows that he can’t even count on one hand the number of people in his life who have acted towards him with the same level of conscientiousness and simple care. 

“Always, kitty cat,” Eliot’s keys click away in the background. “Always.”

x

 

When Alice kisses him, Quentin isn’t expecting it. 

He jumps back, bringing the back of his hand to his lips. “Wha — What are you _doing_?”

Alice has frozen, leaned over on the backroom couch where they had been looking through a dusty tome together. “I-I thought, it seemed —“ she carefully closes and puts the book down on the coffee table, flattening her skirt across her knees as she clears her throat. “I like you, Quentin.”

“And I like you, Alice, but — not…like that.”

“I just thought,” she plays with one of the pleats in her sleeve, “that we were similar. Outsiders, you know? That we have a lot in common.”

“We’re all outsiders,” Quentin frowns, not understanding. It’s the very thing that brings their coven together, just like Eliot said. The thing that makes the High King a safe space for them to gather and be themselves — a literal safe-house: that they are different from the rest of the world, and in that way, they are the same. 

Alice tilts her head, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “No,” she says slowly, almost sadly. “I don’t think you are.” She stands up quickly, “I’m sorry, Quentin. I misread the situation,” and rushes from the room. 

Quentin stares into the fireplace, brow furrowed and fingers on his lips, for a long time after she leaves. 

x

 

“Alice kissed me,” he blurts the next evening. 

“Oh,” Eliot pauses, barely looking up from the papers strewn across the desk of his office, surprised. They’re planning a run on one of the magician academies, and it’s taking a lot of planning. “Congratulations?”

“No,” Quentin shakes his head, fingers hidden up his sleeves. 

“No?” Eliot frowns, leaning back in his chair.

“It wasn’t…”

“Good?”

“It was fine, I guess,” Quentin grimaces, and Eliot rubs his chin. “But it wasn’t — anything. It was just. Lips on lips.”

“Well, Q, that’s generally how kisses work,” Eliot is grinning a little bit through his fingers now, but its somewhat brittle. Quentin feels his heart beating in his throat, takes a lurching step forward, is still shaking his head. “What?” Eliot is starting to look trepidatious, “Did something else happen?”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes.

Eliot jumps to his feet and rushes forward, looking alarmed. “Well are you okay?” he begins patting Quentin down, searching for invisible injuries, stopping when he sees the hesitant smile playing on Quentin’s face. “What the fuck, Q?” he asks, exasperated. 

“It’s just —I realized — “ instead of finishing, Quentin reaches out, freezes, and then with a burst of bravery surges forward the rest of the way to grab Eliot by the collar, yanks him down, and kisses him quickly but soundly, before letting go and taking a skittish step back. 

“Oh,” Eliot blinks dumbly, still bent forward. Quentin feels the blood rushing to his cheeks, and smiles awkwardly through the mortification trying to take over his brain, telling him to prepare for the same rejection he showed Alice. Instead, Eliot smiles, a warm, slow unfurling of the corners of his lips. He reaches out, tucks the ever-present curtain of Quentin’s bangs behind his ear, before firmly sliding his hands around either side of his neck, thumbs steadily anchored over the hinges of his jaw, one petting along his cheek. He pulls Quentin close, eyes flicking back and forth as he searches his expression. “Is this you asking to be found, Q?” he asks softly enough that it’s almost a whisper.

“I think I already am,” he responds just as softly. 

Eliot’s smile is bright and sugar sweet, and then he's tilting his head and bridging the inch of distance between them, and this is tongue and teeth, slick and and urgent; this is electricity in his bones, and heat and honey everywhere else; _this_ is _something_ , Quentin thinks dizzily to himself, falling into a feeling too big to name just yet. 

x

Quentin leaves the book on the kitchen counter the next time he visits Julia (he’d moved out a month ago).

Five weeks later, she’s being shoved down the neon-illuminated hall by Margo, emerging into the sitting room where Eliot is draped across his settee — but this time, Quentin is perched next to him so that Eliot’s head is tilted back on his shoulder.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” she demands, “First you quit your job, then you move out. Every time you visit, you avoid all of my questions. Now you're in this janky bar, with this,” she flaps a hand, “guy, whoever he is. It it — drugs. Does this have something to do with drugs, Q?”

Quentin glances down into Eliot’s warm eyes. Reaches up to trace a finger along one of his cheekbones. Eliot catches the hand and brings it down to whisper a kiss across its knuckles before sitting up. “Five weeks, kitty cat. I was starting to think you were wrong about her.”

Quentin leans into Eliot’s side with a sigh, “I know. But I couldn’t _not_ try. She’s my family, too.”

“If you think you're going to get me involved in your, your, meth lab, or whatever the hell this is, think again, Q. I don't even know what I’m doing here, how I got here — did you drug me, already?”

Eliot groans, letting his head fall back and to the side with a dramatic moue. “Not very trusting, is she? I thought you were supposed to be friends.”

Quentin laughs, “Five weeks, remember? You thought _I_ was repressed… meet the socially adjusted version of me. But don’t worry — she makes up for it by being smarter, too.”

“I’m fucking _standing_ right here, douchebags,” Julia almost stomps her foot. “Now will someone start talking, and fast?”

“I like her!” comes Margo’s muffled yell from behind the door.

“Just, do the cigarette trick,” Quentin makes a rolling, get on with it gesture with his hand. 

“Fine, fine, seeing is believing,” Eliot sighs, reaching into the inner pocket of his vest for his cigarette case. Quentin smothers a smile against Eliot’s shoulder, tucks a hand around his knee. Thinks about what they should have for dinner tonight, and makes a mental note to remind El later that he still hasn’t fixed the squeaky hinge on their bedroom door. 

“Tell me, Julia,” Eliot finally addresses Quentin’s very livid friend. He snaps his fingers, the signature flame flaring to life. “What do you know about _magic _?”__


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what time it is ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet
> 
> nsfw, obvi

“Oh- oh god,” Quentin pants, “I can’t - Eliot, I _can’t_ —“

“Yes you can, kitten,” Eliot grins around a choked off, “ _fuck_ ,” as he continues to do just that, pistoning his hips at a constant, steady speed. 

Quentin is spread out below him on their bed, fingers clenched in the pillows above his head, eyes screwed shut, as Eliot works him over. He’s so fucking beautiful like this, expression open, sounds flying from between his lips, that Eliot sometimes can’t stand it, has to look away and catch his breath. 

“It’s _too much_ ,” Quentin protests, but that’s a lie. Eliot brought him off _four_ times just last night, and they’ve only just crested orgasm number two.

“You can take it, sweetheart,” Eliot kisses the words into Q’s knee where it’s slung over his shoulder. “You take it so good, _fuck_ , the feel of you, honey.” He punctuates his statement with such a hard thrust that Quentin slides up the mattress an inch with a whimper. “The _look_ of you,” he continues, breath heavy, as he stops moving in and out of Quentin to instead _grind_. “Wish I could get closer,” he whispers, grunting at the pressure on his balls, continuing to hump against Quentin’s ass, massaging his sac, as Q mewls beneath him, thrashing his head back and forth. 

“El - Eliot - _Eliot!_ ” Quentin kicks one of his heels against Eliot’s back, and that’s his cue to stop self-indulging. 

He moves up onto his knees, grips Quentin behind the thighs, and pushes them forward and apart, spreading him wide, before beginning to fuck him in earnest, now; fast, hard thrusts that have his dick brushing Q’s prostate with every in and out slide. 

“I love you, sweetheart, _fuck_ , I love you so much I don’t know how to handle it, sometimes,” Eliot starts, words punctuated with hitched breaths and soft moans. Quentin’s toes begin to curl as shudders start to rattle throughout his body. “So proud of you, honey, look how far you’ve come,” his eyes trace the dozens of star shaped tattoos peppering his arms. “So beautiful, so smart. How did I get so lucky, Q?” Quentin shouts out, spine bowing. “Yes, baby, that’s it, come on. I want to make you feel so good, just like you make me feel. Come on Quentin, let go. Come on sweetheart, I’ve got you, I promise, I’ve got you —“ and then Quentin is crying out desperately, cock jerking emptily, all of his cum already splattered and rubbed into his stomach and chest. Eliot reaches town, tugs at Q’s cock with a heavy hand, watches the tears spring to Q’s eyes as they finally fall open at the overstimulation, and only stopping once Quentin has gone limpid and lax below him.

_Now_ he’s had enough. 

Eliot lowers himself back down, elbows on either side of Quentin’s head, noses inches apart. His lover staring glassily up at him, mouth slack, arms loose and lost to pleasure, Eliot pushes into him once, twice, and then he’s letting the rush of orgasm sweep over him, burying his face in Quentin’s neck as he gently fucks himself through it. 

Once the shivers tingling down his spine have subsided, he rolls them sideways, tucking Quentin under his chin without pulling out, because he knows that Q feels safer that way. He softly whispers praises, telling Quentin how perfect he is, as he rubs circles up and down his spine and waits for him to come back to himself. 

Sometime later, he feels the flutter of eyelashes against his collar bone, the brush of lips against his throat. 

“Hey,” comes Quentin’s scratchy voice. 

“Hey,” Eliot answers gently, petting through Q’s hair. “How you feeling?”

Quentin hums thoughtfully, burrowing against Eliot’s skin. “Happy,” he eventually sighs. “You make me _so_ happy, Eliot,” he smiles almost deliriously. 

Eliot tightens his arms around Quentin, closing his eyes on a smile, “The feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” before they both drift off to sleep, to dream about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways

**Author's Note:**

> In some ways, the Eliot of this fic might appear ooc: he is very reliable, quite stable (though we still get hints of his depression and self-medication via drink/smoking), and a competent leader. In the tv show, we see hints of this, once he is made High King of fillory -- but the difference here is, while he had no choice in becoming king, in this au, it was very much his own decision to lead a coven of hedges. To that end, I think that, given such circumstances, his development and subsequent characterization in this fic are actually very realistic. 
> 
> It was also very important to me that I contrast Eliot/Quentin's relationship to Alice/Quentin's. For me personally, I felt like so much of Quentin's draw to Alice in the tv series was not just her skill, but also the fact that she was a fellow outcast. Quentin, as we all know, is such an insular character, and very insecure; I think that, in many important ways, it was that shared sense of being outsiders that allowed Quentin and Alice to fall in love. In this au, however, Eliot is more stable and reliable because he has (as previously discussed) chosen his role of hedge leadership, and risen to meet the challenges it presents successfully. This means that, not only is he much more stable, and able to truly recognize Quentin's insecurities, he is also capable of effectively utilizing his skills as a leader to address those insecurities, and to help Quentin grow into his own as both a person and a magician/hedge. This does away with much of what centered his and Alice's dynamic, while also drawing him naturally closer to Eliot.  
> Now, that is not to say that Quentin is by any means "better" or "cured" from his very real mental health issues -- just that he finally feels accepted, and comfortable dealing with them, as well as supported in doing so. 
> 
> OKAY, that's all, folks lol
> 
> Thank you for reading, and pleas comment and kudo!
> 
> x


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